


Sheer Vertigo

by BlackOpal



Category: Artemis Fowl - Colfer
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-19
Updated: 2010-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-06 12:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackOpal/pseuds/BlackOpal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He doesn't cry when the world crumbles." In the end what Opal takes from them isn't their lives, but everything else instead. Apocalyptic future fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sheer Vertigo

**Author's Note:**

> This may not make much sense. It is largely inspired by Oryx and Crake (and possibly Dollhouse). It isn't, however, a crossover. Any concrit would be loved. :)

_He doesn’t know which is worse, a past he can’t regain or a present that will destroy him if he looks at it too clearly. Then there’s the future. Sheer vertigo._

-_Oryx and Crake_ by Margaret Atwood

 

**I.**

 

He doesn’t cry when the world crumbles.

 

 

 

**II.**

 

Their hands clasp together because it’s all they can do not to touch. They drink in the reminder, someone else is out there, someone else survived. And maybe (though he refuses to calculate the percentages) they aren’t the only ones.

 

They kiss because why not? They certainly can’t hurt _more_.

 

His hands trace her, drawing invisible lines on her skin, feeling the bones of her hands, the curve of her hip, the dip of her neck, softly, writing words he wishes he could say.

Their lips touch, but they don’t move, holding themselves, resting.

 

He can feel everything that runs through her veins, the anger, betrayal, sadness, love, and utter desolation that she carries with her, that she won’t share with him. She had always been stubborn, and why should the end of the world change _that_?

 

He tugs lightly on her bottom lip and hears her sigh, gripping his arms as if she is falling and digging in her nails as if he is pushing her.

 

 

 

**III.**

 

As he stands among the crumbling remains of what used to be Dublin he recognizes that he is completely obsolete.

 

 

 

**IV.**

 

In another life he might consider this humorous. The past seems absurd now. Had they really held such empty routines? Had they really walked in a world overpopulated with others? Had they really separated themselves by layers of dirt and metal?

 

How could that have been normal? How could this have taken over so thoroughly?

 

How had they not seen the fragility of Civilization and the overwhelming reach of Chaos?

 

 

 

**V.**

 

It all ended with a smile.

 

No, that’s wrong. He shouldn’t be so simplistic.

 

It was when Opal smiled, though, that he understood.

 

The blood had bubbled out of her open mouth, turning her lips a deep red. Her hands had clasped at her gut, but not with any particular intention, after all, she didn’t want to live. Her fingers were sticky and hot from the bullet wound, her face twitched with the pain.

 

Her eyes, though, her eyes were triumphant.

 

He hadn’t known, not really, not then, just felt it, felt the fear tingling through his limbs.

 

It was only when he heard the word _immune_ that he realized what he had seen in Opal’s death.

 

It had been his life. It had been Holly’s.

 

 

 

**VI.**

 

They fall into their own routine.

 

She finds food any way she can, pillaging houses, searching for farms, and when all else fails she hunts.

 

He works on the radio, on the computer, on the television. He has to search for others, has to find them.

 

In the beginning she came back every day with expectations lingering in her eyes, now she just smiles, sad, battling what is left of hope and covering it up with cynicism. It’s easier that way.

 

But they can’t stop looking. They’d die.

 

 

 

**VII.**

 

In the early days of the disease there had been many conspiracy theories. He is sure that “fairies” had been there somewhere, among Americans, Terrorists, Aliens, and angry plants protesting the destructive tendencies of the human race.

 

Half the world had laughed, the other half had panicked.

 

News reports repeated the same filth over and over again; wash your hands, report infections immediately, and eventually; do not leave your home, do not open the door, do not go outside.

 

Then the news reports stopped.

 

 

 

**VIII.**

 

Butler died first, hand clamped over Artemis’, eyes crinkled with a smile. It had hurt, but it had been the least of them. Butler was old, Butler went to death the way one would meet an old friend.

 

Foaly had been next, and that had been a hit. Artemis had spent most of his days in the laboratory at that time, never getting any closer to a cure, but trying, always trying. Foaly had been his partner in it all, Foaly had been there beside him, and the sudden absence made it all so much more real.

 

His brothers had been young, his mother and father had been happy.

 

Mulch had laughed on his death bed, told them to remember him, told them to keep going and to repopulate the earth with thousands of elf-human hybrids.

 

Mulch had been terrified.

 

They didn’t know when the last person died, but the emptiness settled on them slowly, so slowly that they barely noticed the heaviness they carried with them.

 

 

 

**IX.**

 

_Your fault, your fault, your fault_, Opal mocks in his dreams. _I just wanted to rule the world, not end it._

 

 

 

**X.**

 

“Do you remember when Mulch stole that pile of gold from the LEP?”

 

She throws the sentence out with caution. Is it alright to talk about the past? He doesn’t know. But it feels good, to hear those words, as if they’re alive.

 

“That dwarf was a sneaky little bugger,” he says with a smile. “But nothing beats when Juliet knocked out those guards in front of Spiro’s building.”

 

“What about the time Butler took out the troll?”

 

And he laughs. The sound is hollow and hoarse and the edges are tinged with pain.

 

Still, for the first time it occurs to him that maybe this is allowed.

 

 

 

**XI.**

 

_They’d still be alive if not for you._

 

 

 

**XII.**

 

His face is unrecognizable beneath layers of dirt, his hair has grown to disreputable lengths and he has a beard, of all things.

 

They clean in a river, scrubbing themselves until they’re raw and red. She uses a knife to chop off chunks of her hair until it falls just below her ears, then hands it to him.

 

It’s odd, they don’t quite look like the people they used to be, even clean.

 

He presses his thumb lightly to the corner of her lip, cupping her chin in his hand.

 

“We’re alone, aren’t we?” She ask, a plea in her voice that he can’t answer.

 

“Yes.” He’s done everything he can. There’s no one within range. The statistics aren’t good either. He had worked against the disease, he knows how ruthless it was.

 

She grabs a fistful of his shirt and pulls him down, kissing him with complete abandon.

 

 

 

**XIII.**

 

_So many deaths on your hands, I can imagine that it must be hard to carry_, dream-Opal says with a laugh.

 

 

 

**XIV.**

 

When they fight they scream.

 

He doesn’t know where it started. He never knows where it starts. But it had transgressed their usual protocol, moved from subject to subject, and he’s tired of it, but at the same time he can’t let it go.

 

“It’s broken!” She yells, cradling the machinery in her hands as if it is a child.

 

“Yes, I was going to fix it tomorrow,” he explains, his voice hard.

 

“What if someone tries to page us tonight?”

 

“Nobody will.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“Because I do.”

 

Then she’s sobbing, hunched over, shoulders shaking, and the sight of her like this, weak, feels like a knife slicing through skin.

 

He drops to his knees next to her, trying to wrestle the radio out of her hands, but she pushes him back. He tumbles to the ground with a grunt, but she doesn’t notice, just weeps.

 

 

 

**XV. **

 

He didn’t cry when the world crumbled.

 

He steeled himself for what was ahead, he planned, he calculated.

 

But when the radio static begins to form words, molding nonsense into sentences, he can’t stop the tears.

 

 

 

**XVI.**

 

_You ended the world_, Opal tells him.

 

_But we’ll build it back up_, he replies, _we’ll make it again, we’ll make it better._

 

 

 

**XVII. **

 

They grab at hope as if they’re starving, taking in too much at once, and soon they’re dizzy with it. They fall against each other laughing, holding each other close, breathing the air they now know they share with others.

 

They can’t get the past back, but maybe they can have a future.


End file.
